The Darkest Hour
by SadArticle
Summary: Classic Knight Rider. Set early during the first season, but not based on a particular episode! Kitt teaches Michael that partnership is built on trust.


The Darkest Hour

_A/N: Set very early on in the first season, somewhere between the pilot episode and 'Not a Drop to Drink' (the one where Michael tells Kitt that he is 'better than any motel', the inspiration for this little ficlet!) Thanks again to sara_merry99 for beta-reading and ::bouncing:: when I got it right! _

Michael Knight fought off a yawn, his eyes watering with the effort, and tried to stretch the cramped muscles in his arms. How many more miles before home, and bed, and rest? He didn't precisely know – the markers of time and distance had long since blurred in his mind – and he was half afraid to ask. Kitt would know, of course; computers didn't need to sleep or eat to stay on top of their game. Without missing a beat, Kitt could probably calculate down to the last inch the distance they had travelled since leaving Phoenix, and approximate in hours, minutes and seconds their ETA at the FLAG estate. All it would take to find out was a simple question, but Michael was too tired to speak. Instead, he opened his eyes wide and forced himself to focus on the road ahead.

"Michael, there is a rest area 20.5 miles ahead," Kitt's smooth voice piped up. The twin monitors on the curved wing of the dash came to life, flashing a map of the area around the freeway for Michael's attention. "You have been driving for over six hours without a break, and my sensors detect that you are showing symptoms of tiredness – constant yawning, a lack of energy and poor concentration. Perhaps a caffeinated drink and some exercise would help to counter these effects?"

Michael sighed. "I'm fine," he groaned, before adding for good measure: "How much further to LA?"

"Approximately 129 miles, if we remain on the Interstate," the computer readily supplied. "At our present speed, that should take 2 hours and 9 minutes to complete."

"Piece of cake," Michael muttered. He looked at the dark square of the modulator above the steering column, with a sinking feeling that Kitt wasn't quite finished.

His suspicions were proven correct when the red light started to flash. "We might have reached our destination sooner had you not planned a route via San Diego, taking us out of our way," that calm, cultured voice added.

Michael took it all in – the thinly veiled censure of his priorities, Kitt's insistent choice of pronoun – and let it pass. After all, the computer was right, Michael was wrong, but he had absolutely no regrets over taking the unofficial detour – so what was there to say?

"A couple of hours is nothing," he offered. "I'm doing OK."

"Michael –"

"Kitt, not now, please!"

Suddenly a horn blared out. Michael jumped, shifting his focus from the dash to the rear view mirror, but before he could react Kitt had the car safely back in the right lane. Relief and frustration flooded Michael's already overworked system, and he smacked his fist into the centre of the yoke.

"You were weaving out of your lane," Kitt said quietly.

"No, I was talking to _you_," Michael snapped. "Shut up and find a station, Kitt."

"Police or radio?"

He was never sure if Kitt was being sarcastic or actually required Michael to qualify an instruction, so he spat out:"Radio." When Johnny Lee came over the speakers, singing about finding himself on another highway again, Michael rolled his eyes.

The fact was he did need to stop and take a break. His body was telling him that enough was enough – he could barely keep his eyes open, and his hands kept slipping from the steering yoke – but he wanted to get back to the Foundation. Rest areas and motels now seemed to punctuate a life spent on the road, and he wasn't sure that he liked it. Even on the force, he had always had his own apartment, a base where he could crash when not on assignment, infrequent though his free time had been those last few years. Now he lived in his car, and his days – and nights – were not his own.

Michael shook his head. What was the point in thinking about the past? Detective Lieutenant Long was dead now, and Wilton Knight had given him a second chance at life with a new face and a new name. His address was currently the Foundation mansion, but that didn't have to be a permanent arrangement; it was merely convenient to stay on after returning Kitt to Bonnie Barstow and the technicians at FLAG. The car belonged there, but Michael did not. He would have to talk to Devon about finding his own place –

"Michael!" Kitt called out.

Michael sat up straight and looked around him. Cars were overtaking and flying past the sleek Knight 2000 as if it was at a standstill, which was a rare and uncomfortable experience. A glance at the digital speedometer showed Michael why – the display read 40 mph.

"What's wrong?" he asked, stamping down on the gas pedal. "Why were we slowing down?"

"You were slowing down, Michael, not me," the computer replied. "I thought you might have fallen asleep at the wheel again, as you did on route to Millston some months ago."

Michael pressed a hand to his eyes, gripping his aching temples. He was driving a car in his sleep but felt invulnerable to the danger, relying on Kitt to take care of any potential hazards. It was a subconscious gesture of trust that worried Michael, not least because it could get him killed again if he once misjudged his partner's capabilities. He knew that Kitt was programmed to protect him, and he had firsthand experience of the computer's proficiency in piloting the car, but that was no excuse for pushing himself to the limit and expecting someone else to cover for him.

"Sorry, Kitt, I didn't mean to blame you," he sighed. "I'm just – tired, I guess."

"I understand – irritability is another sign of tiredness," Kitt told him, talking over the muted radio. "I'm afraid we passed the rest area some miles back, but I do have an alternative suggestion."

"Anything!" Michael sighed.

"You could sleep here," Kitt said simply. "According to the data I have, taking a short nap of anything from twenty minutes to an hour can have the same restive qualities as a full night's sleep. The remainder of our journey should take approximately one hour and thirty five minutes, which you could pass most productively by recharging your energy," he explained in a soothing voice, adding: "I can return us to the Foundation."

Michael said nothing for a moment, hypnotised by the fluctuating red light of the modulator, and then gave a sharp shake of his head. "No," he grunted, before clearing his throat to add: "Thanks, Kitt, but I'm the driver."

"Of course you are," the computer agreed in a slightly patronising tone, "although I might argue that your operation of this car is actually the least of your capabilities. My point is simply that the 'Auto Cruise' function is designed to assist you, not replace you – as am I."

"Kitt, it would be far too easy to let you take over, believe me," Michael told his partner. He paused to give in to a deep, wide yawn that made his jaw creak. "I could just sit here, bulletproof and air-conditioned, while you do all the work, but pretty soon I'd forget why the hell Wilton Knight took me on in the first place. I've got to pull my weight, that's all."

"Michael, I doubt I will ever comprehend your thought processes," Kitt came back instantly, "but I can offer a logical resolution to our current predicament: allowing me to complete the last leg of our journey is sensible, efficient and only fair. After all, we are partners, aren't we?"

Michael stared dully at the modulator, too tired to argue. "Yeah, we're partners," he said.

"Then why are you being so stubborn?" Kitt asked. "You need to rest. Put the car into Auto Cruise, recline your seat and relax."

"And what if the cops stop us again?"

"They won't," Kitt assured his driver. "It's three thirty seven in the morning, traffic is light, and I can always darken the windows. Please, Michael, let me take over."

It felt like that first night in Millston all over again; Michael heard his own voice, dull with pain, saying, 'It's all yours, Kitt'. Wounded and losing consciousness, he had battled Kitt for control of the car even then, risking that second chance at life to prove a point to himself. His old partner, Muntzy, was dead, and his life as Michael Long was over – this time around, he was on his own. Except it hadn't worked out like that. Somewhere between getting in that sleek black car on the Knight estate and giving into pain and blood loss on a burning airfield, Michael had become part of a team, a family. The change had been taking place in his heart even as he imagined himself alone, secure in his independence. He didn't know when he had let Devon and Kitt into his life – perhaps after being shot for the second time in six months, or maybe even long before he properly knew them, with Wilton Knight's dying words – but he felt that it was already too late to pretend he didn't need them. He did.

"I don't think I can keep my eyes open much longer, anyway," Michael finally replied. "Let me know – _in advance_ – if any black and whites start showing an interest, and wake me when we reach the Foundation."

"I will," Kitt acknowledged. "Would you like the radio leaving on?"

"Sure," he yawned, and identified 'California Dreamin' when Kitt nudged the volume. Safe and warm in L.A.

Tipping the seat into a comfortable angle, Michael nestled down against the plush upholstery and did as Kitt – and his own body – was telling him. He watched the glowing dash with heavy eyes, following on the monitors the path of Kitt's headlights along the highway. Bar gauges of red and green LEDs indicated the status of the engine and onboard navigation, digital displays scrolled sequences of guidance instructions, and the bright curve of the speedometer measured a steady 65 mph. Michael marvelled at the intelligence and power of the car – of Kitt, his indestructible partner. The price was high, but Wilton Knight had certainly given him every advantage to start over.

"Thanks, Kitt," he mumbled, his eyes drifting closed. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Michael."

He jerked awake, the muzzle flash of a gun still bright behind his eyes. It took him a second to place where he was, staring up at the glass panels of the t-top, and then he heard the steady purr of the engine and felt his weight shift as the car turned a corner.

Michael yawned, volubly, and sat up. "Hey, Kitt," he greeted the car.

An extra set of lights blinked on, and then the familiar pulse of the modulator lit up the central column. "Good morning, Michael!" the computer announced brightly. "How are you feeling?"

"A lot better, thanks," he answered, pulling his seat upright. "Where are we?"

They had left the freeway while Michael was sleeping, and Kitt was now cruising along a quiet residential street. A car passing in the opposite lane washed Michael in its headlights, and the sudden flash brought back his nightmare of a starry night in the Nevada desert. He narrowed his eyes, reacting to the afterimage and the memory.

"We are three blocks away from the Foundation, Michael," Kitt informed him.

"Three blocks?" he echoed. "What time is it?"

"Twelve minutes past five in the morning."

"Oh God," Michael yawned again, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms out above the steering yoke. "I needed that!"

"I take it you slept well, then?" Kitt asked.

"Like a baby," he agreed, and then wondered why. Cramping his six foot frame into the confined space of a car hardly seemed conducive to a comfortable rest, but he had fallen asleep almost immediately and remained dead to the world until woken by his dreams. He glanced around the cabin, then, at the moulded dash and overhead console arranged for his convenience, and realised that he felt _safe_. The glow of the instruments against the grey light of dawn and the controlled temperature of the car's interior were like a friendly embrace, and Michael was almost sorry that they would be stopping soon. He had always enjoyed driving to ease stress, and the Knight 2000 surpassed any car he had ever owned.

For Kitt, there was really no comparison. He couldn't begin to describe how the elegant and expressive voice of the Knight 2000's microprocessor had impacted his new life in such a short space of time, or find the words to express how much his constant companion now meant to him, so he didn't try.

Kitt pulled up outside the FLAG mansion, leaving the engine idling. "Here we are, Michael," he announced, "safe and sound."

"Thanks for the sharing the drive, Kitt" Michael smiled, opening the door. "Until next time, hey?"

FIN


End file.
